A Boy Half There
by mimirshead
Summary: Dick is being haunted by the tapping sounds on his window, and the voice of a little boy, begging to be let in.


"Grayson."

There's a tippity-tapping sound on the window. The sound of a harsh whisper. His name hissed over and over again against the glass.

Dick sits up in his bed. The light from the window is dull and yellow, cast off from the city's luminescence, reflected against the rain a million times until it glows onto the floor, over his duvet, and into his eyes. The sound is just the rain, but he still squints out at it, trying to see if there's anything out there. A ridiculous thought, considering he's on the fifth floor, and the fire escape doesn't run past his window.

"Grayson," the hiss comes again, and he freezes up because it almost sounds like someone's in the room. He looks around wildly to see who it is, but there's nobody. It must be two in the morning. He has work tomorrow, things he needs to get done, and yet he's up. Jumping at shadows.

"Grayson."

He lies back down slowly, and pulls the blanket back over his head, hiding himself away.

"Grayson," the voice says again, insistent, and closer than ever. The tap-tap-taping resumes. "Let me in."

Dick peeks out from under the covers, and catches a shadow falling over his window for a split second before disappearing. His breath catches hard in his throat.

"Grayson," it sing songs. "It's cold in the rain."

There's a sudden sound, like nails scratching down the window screen, metal moaning at the tug of fingernails. The shadowy shape of two hands falls over his bedroom.

"Let me in!" the voice hisses again, somehow loud enough to be heard over the scraping scream of his screen.

The scratching stops, and there's silence. Dick waits. Stock still. Paralyzed. The screen gives a violent shiver, as if it's being shaken in it's frame, and then stops. Interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Dick! You in there?" Jason calls. He must have let himself into the living room. "I brought beer."

Dick opens the door, and feels relief wash over him when it is just Jason, holding a case of beer in one hand. Dick wraps his arm around his "little brother" and pulls him inside. Jason, to his credit, doesn't ask why Dick's acting funny.

Dick is sitting in the living room, watching some late night television on his own when there's a sudden banging. The door rattles in it's frame like someone's pounding against it.

"Grayson!" It's the same voice, pitched higher with fright, calling his name with an odd, accented lilt he can't place. "Grayson, let me in, he's here! He's going to take me away back to mother!"

He curls up underneath his blanket, listening, staring horror struck at the door. The banging continues, and is suddenly shorted out by a huge whump. Like a tiny body hitting the hard wood. There's a sudden grunting sound, and a shill screeching.

And then he's greeted with a sudden silence. Slowly, he gets up, and crosses to the door. When he opens it, he expects to see blood, or a dead body. Instead he sees the empty hallway.

"I think I'm going crazy."

Babs looks confused. "Why do you say that?" she asks, stirring her coffee.

"I keep hearing this little boy. He's begging me to let him into my apartment. He'll tell me it's cold out, or that someone's coming to take him back to his mother. And he'll bang on the door calling my name. But he's never there when I open it, and I know he's not real."

"Sounds like a haunting," Babs says jokingly, hopping up backwards onto his kitchen counter.

"I'm being serious, Babs."

"Oh, lighten up, Dick. It'll pass. You just need more sleep is all."

"Grayson?"

Dick sits up in his bed, and looks toward the door. There's a light streaming in from the crack between it and the floor.

"Are you awake?"

He doesn't answer, and when he's quiet, he hears the boy give a heavy sigh. His little, aristocratic voice heavy with some sort of emotion. And then he starts singing. It's a song that sounds older than time in some lilting, middle eastern language. Dick sits, staring at the door, listening until the boy stops singing, and sighs again.

"Why won't you talk to me?" he asks.

Dick doesn't answer.

"I know you're awake in there, Grayson. I know you."

Dick bites his tongue.

"Please let me in?" the boy whispers. "I'll be good. I promise to do whatever father says, just please stop doing this."

There's a long moment of silence, and then the door rattles in it's frame, and there's a great booming sound as if the boy's struck hard against it.

"Fine! I never needed you anyway!"

Tiny feet stomp off down the hallway, and the light goes off. Dick lies back down in his bed and pretends like it didn't happen.

"Grayson! Grayson, get up it's time for patrol!"

Dick sits up in bed, wiping the drool off his face.

"Father's mad at you for being late. He says if you're not down in three minutes, he's going to leave you behind."

"Okay," Dick says sleepily, pushing himself out of bed, and crossing to open the door. When the door does open, there's no one in the hall, and it's dark. And as he's staring down at the floor, he remembers that he doesn't know what any of that meant. Who was father, and what was he meant to be patrolling?

"Perhaps it's a repressed past life." Leslie says. Dick's face screws up in confusion. "Someone you feel you owe it to to be there for. Someone you felt you let down."

"Why would he be haunting me? How do you know I'm not nuts?"

Leslie smiles at him. "Maybe you should try letting him in."

"Grayson?"

"Yeah?" Dick asks, sitting up in bed.

It's raining again, and there's a tiny shadow pressed up against his window, balanced on the sill. "Can I come in?"

Reluctantly, Dick slides out of bed, and pushes the window up. Rain water splashes onto the hard wood, and a little boy in what looks like a superhero costume slides in through the open space. He's graceful in a way that he really shouldn't be at that age, bending and twisting like he's a deadly viper. He smells like leather and polyester. His eyes are covered by a mask which he rips off, pulling away some of the skin with it.

"Father sent me to my room again, but it smells like dog in there because of Titus. If I'm intruding you can tell me to leave," he says, never quite making eye contact, never quite looking up, but the resemblance he bares to Bruce is uncanny.

"You can stay if you want," Dick says. "Let's dry you off first though. Don't want you getting everything all wet." He's trying to be as casual as possible, gathering towels, and some dry pajamas. The costume finds itself on the floor in the corner, replaced by boxers and an overlarge wife beater that makes the kid's skin look swarthy and rich.

"Come on, kiddo," Dick says, ushering the boy toward the bed. Harsh blue eyes cut up into his for a second. The first time since he let the boy in.

"Don't call me that."

"Then what do you want me to call you?"

"My name."

Dick silently curses his luck as he tucks the kid into his bed. He makes for the couch, but a tiny hand wraps tight around his wrist.

"What's up?" he asks. The boy looks away, and tuts under his breath, but he doesn't let go until Dick realizes he's being asked to stay.

He climbs in to bed next to the kid, who rolls up into his arms, and promptly drops off to sleep.

He wakes up in the morning alone, and cold from leaving the window open. There's water splashed on the floor from the rain getting in, and he's convinced he's utterly bonkers, until he finds the little, green leather mask on the floor shoved halfway under his bed.

"What do you think?" he asks Babs, as she turns it over in her hands.

"You let this crazy kid in a superhero costume sleep in your bed?" Babs asks.

"He couldn't have been more than ten, Babs. What's the worst he could have done?"

"Killed you in your sleep maybe? I think you should lock your doors and windows."

"He's harmless. All he wanted was some cuddles, and now I've got proof he's real."

Babs shrugs. "Whatever," she says, but she's eyeing the mask like it's going to spring to life and kill them both with their Taco Bell.

tap tap tap

"Grayson."

Dick opens the window, and the boy slides in once more. The same strange fluidity to his movements, except there's a bit of falter this time. He's favoring his right side.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Life happened, the boy says, unzipping the red tunic of his suit, and brandishing a little hole in his side. It's bleeding down his thigh and onto the floor. Dick hisses. "Mother sent another one of her assassins. This one wasn't half bad," he says, as if this is as casual as talking about the weather.

He begins undressing, dropping article after article of clothing to the ground, completely ignoring the wound. Dick stops him by clapping his hands down on the boy's shoulders. He freezes, blue eyes wide with questions that are lined with threats.

"We need to get you some first aid," Dick says.

He has a feeling that this boy doesn't want to go to the hospital, so he steers him into the bathroom instead, and sits him down on the toilet. Then he pulls out the first aid kit, and starts dabbing at the wound with a cotton ball that he soaked in rubbing alcohol.

"Who are you, Pennyworth?" the boy asks, attempting to bat his hand away. "That stings, Grayson. Stop it."

"I don't want you getting an infection," Dick says, flicking the boys hand, and watching him pout out of the corner of his eye as he keeps "doctoring".

"Okay, kiddo," He says when he's done.

The boy stiffens immediately. "Don't call me that."

"Then what should I call you?" Dick asks again.

"Call me by my name. Call me Damian." Dick smiles at the small triumph.

"OK, Damian," he says. Damian tuts, and Dick pushes him into bed.

In the morning he's alone again, but there are bandages missing from his first aid kit, and he doubts the blood will ever come up off the floor. He takes pictures of it to show Babs.

Damian doesn't come that night, and Dick sits up until four o'clock worrying.

"He didn't show up last night."

Babs sighs on the other end of the line.

"No, Babs. You don't get it. The last time I saw him he'd been stabbed. He could be dead."

"I know you're worried, Dick but it's really none of your business."

"I'm sorry, but there's a kid who needs help. I think it's time I made it my business."

Damian's sitting on his bed when he gets home from work. Dick almost doesn't recognize him in normal clothes. He has a backpack slung over his arm.

"What's up, Kiddo?" Dick asks.

Damian grimaces and tuts, but he doesn't say anything about the pet name.

"I brought some things," he says noncommittally. Dick chuckles.

"What happened to your costume?"

"My uniform," Damian corrects tersely, "is in the bag. Along with my toothbrush and a change of clothing. Father is being rather insufferable today."

"What'd he do this time?"

"He's holding Titus until I can "behave myself"," Damian says.

"That sucks. I'm sure you miss him," Dick says, imagining a great tyrant of a father holding a teddy bear hostage for good behavior.

"He's just a dog, Grayson. Pennyworth will take care of him."

Close enough.

Damian strips himself to his underwear and slides under the covers, watching Dick with his piercing, blue eyes. He looks like a turtle hiding in it's shell. Dick laughs as he climbs into bed next to him.

He wakes up sometime in the middle of the night, to see Damian dressing in his "uniform". He has just enough forethought to snap a picture on his phone as Damian pulls his hood up. The result is a backlit, barely detailed figure with glowing eyes. Dick thinks it's rather impressive.

Babs' eyes go wide when Dick shows her the picture. It's like it never really clicked until now that this kid is real. She insists he send it to her, and then doctors it until she can see every detail from the big R on his chest, to the stitching in his gloves.

"You were right about his age," she says when she calls him up four hours later. "Judging by his proportions he's ten or eleven. But here's the thing, and this is weird. The kid is ripped. Like works out everyday for hours ripped."

"I know, I've seen him without his shirt on. He's covered in scars too."

"I don't know about this kid, Dick. There's something not right about all this."

"I don't think he's going to hurt me. For what ever reason he trusts me. That's good enough."  
"Your funeral."

Dick gets home late that night, and falls into bed exhausted. At some point, he becomes aware of someone or something crawling over him. He doesn't move, opting instead to wait. Damian sits straddling his stomach.

"Grayson?" the whisper is familiar by now. Almost like Damian enjoys saying his name in some odd way. He doesn't answer, so Damian leans forward, and touches his face. palms splayed across cheeks, thumbs lying beside the bridge of his nose. He feels Damian lean forward, and kiss the tip if his nose.

Then, like it's some secret ritual. Like he doesn't want anyone to know, he slides slowly underneath the covers beside him.

Dick's nose still tingles in the morning when he wakes up to find a little boy sleeping next to him. He snaps another picture with his phone, and turns the alarm off before it wakes him up. As he's getting out of bed he stops, all at once utterly shocked by the realization that this is a little kid.

He's known that. He knew that since the boy started pounding on his front door, but this is different. It's the first time he's ever really seen it. The hidden innocence that Damian's buried under layers of trauma. Dick lies back down, and dials his work number.

"Amy? Hey, yeah. I'm sorry, I can't come in today."

"Why? You sick?"

"No. Not exactly. But I have to watch my little brother, and he is. He's got a temperature, and I'm kind of worried, because dad would kill me if I left him alone like this."

"Officer Dick Grayson," Amy says, half laughing. "Baby sitter extraordinaire."

"Yeah. Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Hey, Grayson?"

"Yeah?"

"Bring in pictures. I'd love to see your baby brother."

"Sure thing, boss."

Damian's staring at him when he hangs up the phone, unnerving eyes calculating.

"Hey there, Little D." Damian's nose scrunches up like he's heard that a million times before. "Wanna play hooky with me today?"

Damian gives him a wary look.

"I'll make breakfast."

"You mean toaster grilled cheese and cereal?" Damian asks. Dick laughs.

"I'll call Babs. She'll make breakfast."

Babs shows up with groceries, chattering quickly, and bustles through the door. She's set them down on the kitchen counter before she even realizes Damian's sitting on the couch watching morning cartoons. She pauses in pulling eggs out of the plastic bag, and just stares at him.

"Is that him?"

Damian's eyes cut over to them, bright, and sharp, and caustic.

"Yeah."

"I didn't notice the interracial mix of features in the picture you sent me, or the skin tone," She says quietly, pulling a pan down off the rack. She cracks an egg into it, and turns the heat on. "God, he looks like Bruce."

Damian's eyes narrow further.

"I noticed," Dick says.

"But you didn't tell me. Or him for that matter."

There's a tiny tutting sound, and Dick hears Damian shifting on the couch, but when he looks up, Damian's eyes are still trained on him, hard, and narrowed, and for the first time they're distrusting.

Dick swallows hard. There's a sudden chill running down his spine as Damian stands up.

"Grayson," he says, before sliding seamlessly into another language. It sounds vaguely like Arabic, but Dick doesn't understand a word despite the fact that he gets the feeling he's supposed to.

Damian takes a step forward, and repeats himself, lip curling back at the look of confusion on Dick's face.

Babs' face is lax with shock, and her hand tightens on Dick's forearm.

"Who are you?" Damian asks. "Why have you lost the language of my family. I spent a full year teaching you. Why would I not look like my father?"

"Dami, I-"

"Do you even bleed, impostor?"

The knife comes out of nowhere, and whizzes by his head with trained accuracy, slicing through his cheek just enough to draw blood, and lodging itself in the wood of a cabinet door.

"And you, Oracle," he says, turning on Barbra. "Why are you walking? How long has this sham been going on?"

Dick steps forward, reaching out in an attempt to calm the boy. The take down is so quick Dick doesn't even know what hit him. Suddenly he's on the ground, with Damian standing over him, glaring at Babs.

Dick reaches up to try and throw the boy off him, but his hand is snatched up, fingers bent backward. "You're police training won't help you here, Grayson. You have to remember what my father taught you."

Dick squirms trying to remember some of the more advanced martial arts moves he'd learned.

"Remember what he taught you! Are you so lost and pathetic that you have forgotten our life's work?"

Dick tries again to throw the boy off, but Damian's knee comes down into his sternum, winding him.

"Remember!"

Babs makes a panicked noise, and rushes forward, but Damian fixes her with a glare, stopping her dead in her tracks.

"Are you so dull that you would forget years of training? Are you so fucking retarded that you would forget the Batman?"

Dick goes limp, eyes wide.

"You took an oath," Damian's eyes are so very sincere, like he speaks the utmost truth. "We took an oath," he says over, and something sparks in Dick's mind. Some half remembered night, standing in a dark place, his hand placed in a larger hand, staring into the white lenses of a mask similar to Damian's as he spoke the words of an eternal promise.

"Have you truly forgotten all that we stand for?" Damian sounds almost pleading. "I never imagined that when you left you wanted so badly to be away from us you would do something like forgetting it all. But this explains it, doesn't it? This explains why you refuse to answer my phone calls. Why you would not let me in. Father would be ashamed of you."

Damian steps back, glaring at the both of them. "You can keep your breakfast. Don't look for me."


End file.
